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Wow, what a crock.
I DNF after about page 200 (deserve a like for this hard-fought victory) and tbh, if anyone did, I would question their taste level. In this rambling book, which I picked up at a hostel in Tel Aviv (amazingly, I finished the first one, which at least had action), we have the family continuing to fall out and behave like landed gentry pigs. Salt of the Earth pleb turned empressario Emma Harte is old and still calling the shots. Her illegitimate daughter is still grousing about absolutely nothing, NADA, and let me just say I was rooting for that piece of trash throughout the book. The nadir came when we have TWO separate people looking at the same portrait with lengthy descriptions. We get it, they´re educated. Not interested. Also, the room was purple with a cascade of flowers, the sky was periwinkle blue, the sun was beating like a heart, the Yorkshire Moors... ov vey, over it.
I have always disliked Emma hugely, a bland caricature of a ´working class girl done good´ - all the way through she is praised to the Heavens. This is both a discredit to the writing which TELLS us in classic chiclit fashion who is good and who is bad, but also with Emma who´s smug and unlikeable and with the characters who want to hang with this old goat. Yawn. The writing has a never-ending slew of turgid sayings, ´Love is a marriage of seeds, water the garden´ (excuse me, I have to vomit into my hat). There was also ridiculous showing, ´She was born in 1889, 11 years more than this century´ - hey BTB, we can work this out. We GET she is almost 80! The sex scene which used the word ´shaft´ (excuse me, there´s blood in my shoe, I have to leave) shows this chick can´t make a jot when it comes to a good love scene. Jackie Collins, Lord love her called a dick a dick. She made horny spinsters scream with joy. BTB couldn´t give a teenage boy an erection. Useless.
I´m slagging this book off and I´m having a marvelous time. If you´re still reading, I continued just to get to the bit where the matriach and blandest heroine in literature died. It was immensely satisifying, although I had to flick through the never-ending blandless of Paula, a carbon copy of Emma. And Miranda with her kooky costumes, that was lame too. It wasn´t groovy or whatever word they used ´a scream´ ´a multicoloured peacock´. Trash is an art, and this woman with her polysyllabic words (she gets the English language, that I give her, our lassie from Yorkshire) and unlimited wordflow is not trash, it´s barely feasible reality. Time to move on to some saga featuring young tarts who have no shame, class or culture and guys who don´t cry of unrequited love but who get into fist fights at the drop of the hat and who you want to be taken down a peg.
I DNF after about page 200 (deserve a like for this hard-fought victory) and tbh, if anyone did, I would question their taste level. In this rambling book, which I picked up at a hostel in Tel Aviv (amazingly, I finished the first one, which at least had action), we have the family continuing to fall out and behave like landed gentry pigs. Salt of the Earth pleb turned empressario Emma Harte is old and still calling the shots. Her illegitimate daughter is still grousing about absolutely nothing, NADA, and let me just say I was rooting for that piece of trash throughout the book. The nadir came when we have TWO separate people looking at the same portrait with lengthy descriptions. We get it, they´re educated. Not interested. Also, the room was purple with a cascade of flowers, the sky was periwinkle blue, the sun was beating like a heart, the Yorkshire Moors... ov vey, over it.
I have always disliked Emma hugely, a bland caricature of a ´working class girl done good´ - all the way through she is praised to the Heavens. This is both a discredit to the writing which TELLS us in classic chiclit fashion who is good and who is bad, but also with Emma who´s smug and unlikeable and with the characters who want to hang with this old goat. Yawn. The writing has a never-ending slew of turgid sayings, ´Love is a marriage of seeds, water the garden´ (excuse me, I have to vomit into my hat). There was also ridiculous showing, ´She was born in 1889, 11 years more than this century´ - hey BTB, we can work this out. We GET she is almost 80! The sex scene which used the word ´shaft´ (excuse me, there´s blood in my shoe, I have to leave) shows this chick can´t make a jot when it comes to a good love scene. Jackie Collins, Lord love her called a dick a dick. She made horny spinsters scream with joy. BTB couldn´t give a teenage boy an erection. Useless.
I´m slagging this book off and I´m having a marvelous time. If you´re still reading, I continued just to get to the bit where the matriach and blandest heroine in literature died. It was immensely satisifying, although I had to flick through the never-ending blandless of Paula, a carbon copy of Emma. And Miranda with her kooky costumes, that was lame too. It wasn´t groovy or whatever word they used ´a scream´ ´a multicoloured peacock´. Trash is an art, and this woman with her polysyllabic words (she gets the English language, that I give her, our lassie from Yorkshire) and unlimited wordflow is not trash, it´s barely feasible reality. Time to move on to some saga featuring young tarts who have no shame, class or culture and guys who don´t cry of unrequited love but who get into fist fights at the drop of the hat and who you want to be taken down a peg.
